Until All Bonds Are Broken

by Tim Frankovich

  “Why?” Dravid waved his hand in the air. “You use magic through your voice to persuade people. You promise miracles, but we’ve yet to see anything. You made me sleep an extra day for some reason. Shall I go on?”

  “Magic. What a limited word you all use to describe so many different forms of power.”

  “And you’re fond of cryptic statements.”

  Forerunner chuckled. “That’s fair. But to answer your charges: my voice, as I said, is natural. My promises will be fulfilled; I promise you that.” He stepped up beside the bed. “I told you that you would have to choose what I would restore. You still have plenty of time to make that choice.”

  He touched Dravid’s amputated leg. He felt a vibration and heat spread through his stump. For a moment, Dravid genuinely believed his leg was about to regrow. And then the feeling faded.

  “And I’m actually not sure why you slept so long,” Forerunner said, stepping back. “Or even why you’re not sleeping right now.”

  “Now?” At the words, Dravid felt the lethargy in his body grow stronger. His eyelids seemed to pull themselves down.

  “You absorbed a good deal of my… magic. It should exhaust your frail body.”

  “No, I…” Dravid couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. Sleep. It’s what he needed, after all.

  “Your questions will be answered. In time.” Forerunner’s voice had the vibrations in it again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  KISHIN WAVERED MANY times on the road. Return to his old life? Preposterous. It could never be. But what else should he do? Start a new life somewhere? What kind of life? How would he do it? He had no answers.

  His dire straits did not become clear to him until he met a merchant. The man appeared Mandiatan, which made him a long way from home. Traveling merchants were unusual. Most people regarded them with suspicion, since they seemed to defy the normal Bindings that everyone held to their homes. Yet they provided valuable services that no one wanted to avoid.

  “Greetings!” the merchant called to him from some distance away. A somewhat portly man, he seemed at ease walking the road and leading a donkey who pulled a small cart of his wares.

  Kishin nodded in response. He did not feel much like conversation.

  “Are you in need of anything today, good sir? I carry a wide variety of—”

  “No, thank you.”

  If the merchant wasn’t used to rudeness, he didn’t show it. He nodded and kept talking. “As well as you like, sir. I merely offer, as you seem to be all alone on the road with few supplies. It seemed a bit odd to me, it did. So I thought to myself that I would see if you needed anything. That’s all I did.”

  His voice held an annoying high pitch.

  “Out here on the road, folks should look out for each other. Don’t you agree?” he went on. “I do have plenty of food available. Might you be wanting a bite to eat, perhaps?”

  “No.” Kishin attempted to move past him.

  The merchant put out a hand. “Now, now. No need to rush on our ways here. I would at least be interested in a bit of news from Varioch. Perhaps you could tell me some in exchange for some dried pork?”

  “No.” That voice grated on him, scraping against his nerves.

  “Well, now. I’d expect more from a fellow traveler like yourself. Returning to Ch’olan, are you? I just want to know about where you’ve been, which happens to be where I’m going. I’ve made offers, and you’ve refused them. Not much else to say, I suppose.”

  Kishin growled and tried to step past him again.

  “But wait. That’s a mighty fine sword you have at your side there. Don’t see many weapons like that on the road. Some bows for killing game, to be sure, and knives. Everyone needs a good knife. I have a dozen or so on my cart. But no swords. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in selling it? Might I see it?”

  Kishin grabbed the merchant by his collar and shoved him up against the cart, whipping out his sword at the same time. “You want to see this sword?” He held the blade up against the merchant’s neck.

  “Mercy!” he cried. “I meant no harm!”

  “Tell me your curse.” The words spilled out of Kishin’s mouth before he even thought them. He always said those words. He always wanted to know the answer.

  “I’m not cursed!” The high-pitched voice took on an even more annoying tone with its indignation.

  “All men are cursed.”

  “I’m not, I tell you! But you will be if you keep this up!”

  Kishin stopped himself. The merchant spoke the truth. He himself had no curse right now. But if he killed this man…

  Part of him wanted to do it. Kill him. Not only because he enjoyed the killing, but because it might return his curse to him. He wanted it back. It defined him.

  His hand shook and the sword blade vibrated against the merchant’s neck. “Please! Spare me!”

  Yet he might not get the same curse again. What if he killed this man and Theon or the magic gave him a different curse? One that did not set him free like his old curse? He could not take that risk. Could he? He pushed forward with the blade, ever so slightly. The merchant squealed.

  Do it! Kill him!

  Kishin pulled back the sword, screamed incoherently, and spun in a circle, taking hold of the sword hilt with both hands. He slammed it into the cart, a hair’s breadth from the merchant’s neck.

  No words now. The merchant shook, gasping and trying to control his breathing, having already lost control of other bodily functions. A puddle formed at his feet.

  Kishin yanked his sword back and glared. The merchant whimpered and sank to his knees in his own urine. Pathetic. He needed to die. He…

  The sword slid back into its sheath. Kishin spun and walked on down the road. The merchant began to sob behind him.

  He didn’t know why he hadn’t killed the man. He tried to tell himself the merchant wasn’t worth it. This warpsteel blade should not be sullied with the likes of his blood. Yet he had wanted to kill him. Wanted it so much.

  Life did not make sense any more. Nothing did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  OTIOCH ENTERED VOLRAAG’S command tent in a hurry. “Your lordship! The Rasnians are doing something!”

  Volraag looked up from his map. “And what would that be?”

  “General Cassian wants you to see it for yourself.”

  Intrigued, Volraag followed him outside. The elevated platform had been constructed to Cassian’s specifications to gain a better visual of the wide, flat land. Otioch and Volraag climbed the ladder to join the general at its top.

  “What are the Rasnians doing?”

  In response, Cassian handed Volraag a spyglass. “See for yourself.”

  Volraag gave his general a raised eyebrow, but took the glass. He focused on the Rasnian lines.

  “Look to the middle,” Cassian said.

  Volraag moved the glass. Several squads of Rasnian soldiers had advanced into the disputed land. But they weren’t advancing to fight, it appeared.

  “They’re… building?”

  “I think they’re trying to build a barrier wall.”

  Volraag lowered the glass. “How do you propose we disrupt this? Cavalry?”

  “It would be the easiest, but I hesitate to commit them for this,” Cassian said. “It’s hard to see from here, but the Rasnians may have archers at ready in case we try that. I don’t want to lose good men and horses for this.”

  “Conscripts then.”

  Cassian nodded. “I’ve given the preparation order. Just waiting for you to confirm it. I’ll send two centuries in, and have the cavalry standing ready.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  VICTOR TOOK A deep breath and looked sideways at Marshal. “This is it, I guess.”

  Marshal only nodded. They stood at the front lines, waiting for the command to advance.

  Victor looked over his shoulder. The rest of the curse squad stood behind them. He tried to read their expressions. Topleb’s downturn
ed face spoke of resignation. The twins and Rufus kept shifting their feet and looking around. The others, surprisingly, didn’t appear very nervous. Wolf’s face held no discernible emotion. Albus stood quiet and still, while Gnaeus tried to position himself properly with the shield. Merish smiled, as he always did when someone put a sword in his hand.

  Marshal, Victor noticed, did not look back at the others. He felt a brief flash of anger. A leader should be encouraging the men, preparing them for what was to come, not ignoring them.

  “Are you going to say something to them?”

  “What?” Marshal blinked.

  Victor leaned in. “We’re about to go into battle. Shouldn’t you say something to your squad?”

  Marshal glanced back. “I…” He looked down. “I don’t know what I would say.”

  “You’re their leader! They need to hear from you!”

  “I didn’t want this! I tried… to tell you!”

  “Hailstones!” Victor spun on his heel and took a step back. He looked over the squad again.

  “Curse squad!” he called, loud enough the other conscripts around them could hear. “Curse squad! They expect you to die today!” He pointed left and right with his weapons. “All of them do! At best, they hope you distract the enemy for a few precious moments. At worst, they expect you to just lie down or run away.”

  “Is that an option?” Topleb’s question inspired a few nervous chuckles.

  “I say no! Today, we defy their expectations! Today, we show them that a curse doesn’t define a man!”

  “Then what does?” Marshal whispered, low enough that only Victor heard.

  “A man is defined by what he fights for!”

  “Varioch?” Callus said.

  “We fight not just for Varioch! We fight for all! We fight to be known for who we truly are!” Victor met Marshal’s eyes and lifted his sword high. “We fight for a world without curses!”

  “I don’t think this is going to help with that,” Marshal said in an aside as he drew his sword and held it up.

  “Does it matter if it inspires them?” Victor whispered back.

  “No curses!” Marshal yelled.

  “No curses!” Victor and several of the squad responded.

  “No curses!” Marshal yelled again.

  “No curses!” A much louder shout. Victor swore conscripts all around them joined in.

  “Conscripts!” Another loud voice shouted from horseback nearby. “Advance!”

  Marshal and Victor turned as one and started forward.

  A shallow branch of the Amnis flowed here, marking the boundary of the disputed region. The conscripts, two hundred strong, splashed across it, looking ahead in dread and anticipation. Only a few hundred yards away, Rasnian soldiers worked to erect a crude barrier of wood and dirt.

  Victor could hear the shouts from the enemy soldiers, warning of their advance. Some of them began to scramble about, but others kept on with their tasks, continuing to build.

  The vibration began to build in his hands again. Victor glanced at Marshal. Could he feel it too? Was it like this for him all the time? Marshal only stared toward the enemy. His scars pulsed red.

  As they drew nearer, Victor saw the barrier had already grown much larger than he expected. At least three feet tall, taller in some spots, it stretched in a line for dozens of yards in both directions. Even if the Rasnian soldiers ran away, it would take some time for them to tear all of that down, as they had been commanded.

  Only a hundred yards now. A centurion rode by, ordering several squads to peel off and circle to the right. Victor assumed more did the same on the left. The Rasnians, seeing their progress, finally abandoned their work and began to disappear behind the wall.

  They were hiding? What good would that do?

  Fifty yards. Still they marched at a steady pace.

  “This is insane,” Gallus said.

  “Quiet!” Victor ordered.

  Twenty yards.

  “Weapons ready!” the centurion bellowed. “Take them down!”

  The conscripts broke into a run for the last stretch. Why were the Rasnians hiding? Would they have to cut them down while they lay on the ground?

  Ten yards away, the wall itself shook. Victor’s steps faltered, as did dozens of others.

  The wall, every last inch of it, rose off the ground, trailing dirt. One man stood at the center, his arms raised high. The wall reached a height of six feet off the ground as the charging conscripts stumbled to a halt. Many of them cried out against the magic.

  Around the central figure, the Rasnian troops jumped to their feet. This close, Victor saw them all drawing back on bows. “Shields!” he screamed.

  Arrows launched from dozens of short bows at such a close range, Victor knew they would all die. He ducked behind Marshal’s shield as best as he could. Arrows splintered against it, and some splintered in the air around it. Marshal’s power. It must be growing.

  Behind him, he heard shouts of pain, but he couldn’t spare a moment to look back. The magician threw his arms forward, and the entire wall came hurtling at them, falling into pieces as it flew.

  In the midst of the chaos, Topleb stepped next to him and grunted with effort as his arm swept forward. One of his spear-darts left the atlatl and punched into the center of the magician’s chest. He dropped, even as the wall crashed down on top of the conscripts.

  Again, Marshal’s shield and power protected them. Topleb fell beside them as a chunk of rock smacked his head. Looking up through the dust cloud and debris, Victor saw the Rasnians preparing to launch arrows again. A rage unlike he had ever known filled his chest. The vibration in his hands grew so strong, he almost dropped his weapons.

  Instead, he launched forward, feet digging into the loose dirt still falling around him. The vibrations spread down to his toes. His left hand spun his flail. Once again, the magic seemed not to diminish his movements, but enhance them. His eyes tightened. He could see two Rasnian soldiers directly ahead, both releasing their bows at the same time. Two arrows. Coming right at him. Only feet away.

  His Eldanim-forged sword swept up, cutting through both arrows in the air. One broken piece struck his face, slicing his cheek. The other three missed him entirely, their trajectory thrown off by the sword.

  The Rasnian’s mouths were open in screams, but he couldn’t hear them. A whooshing sound filled his ears, the rapid beat of his own heart. The enemy’s eyes were wide. They dropped their bows and grabbed at spears.

  But Victor was there. His flail caught the first soldier on the side of his chest, shattering ribs. Victor spun with the flail’s movement, bringing his sword around and back to slash across the second soldier’s spine. He continued his spin, the flail starting to twirl up again, and moved toward the next enemy soldier.

  The whooshing filled his ears. The enemy filled his vision. The rage and the magic that tightened his grip and sped his movements filled his body.

  Somewhere in his mind, he knew he screamed. He knew he killed. And killed again. Yet his conscious mind seemed to have no part in his actions. He existed. He fought.

  And then he stopped. Not because he wanted to, but because he could see no more of the enemy.

  Victor looked about him and saw devastation. The magician’s attack and the Rasnian arrows had killed dozens. Death reigned here.

  And Victor had served him.

  “We didn’t anticipate a wild magician,” Cassian said.

  “No,” Volraag agreed. “I thought Lord Tyrr had used them all up already.”

  “Sir?”

  “He brought many with him to Zes Sivas. They… did not return.”

  Volraag lifted the spyglass again and surveyed the remains of the battle. Several centurions were trying to coordinate the withdrawal of the conscripts from the field. Cassian at first suggested keeping troops there, laying claim to the area. But the openness of the terrain would leave them too vulnerable to counter-attack.

  “Unusually powerful for a wild mage,�
�� Volraag mused.

  “Indeed. I’ve never known one to be able to do… that.”

  “Lord Tyrr seems to have quite a collection of wild mages.”

  “Perhaps we should have been collecting them ourselves, sir.”

  “Perhaps. Still. He should not have been that powerful.”

  “As you say.”

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Between the magician and the archers, we lost 30-40 conscripts. There are many wounded, as well,” Otioch said.

  “It would have been higher if not for that one man,” Cassian said.

  “What man is that?” Volraag lowered the spyglass.

  “One of the conscripts,” Otioch said. “He went into a battle frenzy and took out most of the archers on his own.”

  “A conscript did this?”

  “Even stranger: they say he’s a member of the curse squad.”

  Volraag turned to descend from the platform. “I must meet this hero. Bring him to the command tent as soon as you can.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  VICTOR STAGGERED ACROSS the battlefield. Where was his squad? Everywhere he looked, he saw dead and dying men. A cloud of still-settling dust hung over all. The men of Varioch lay pierced with arrows or crushed by fallen debris. The men of Rasna lay dead of other means. The conscripts still standing stared at Victor as he moved past them. Their looks… he had never seen those expressions before. Awe? Or was it fear?

  At last he saw Marshal standing alone, sword still drawn, looking around. For him? Confirming his guess, Marshal spotted him and approached.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Victor shook his head. Somehow, he had remained untouched during his rampage. His cheek throbbed from the arrow’s scratch earlier, but it seemed inconsequential in light of all he saw around him.

  “How… did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. I just… lost myself.”

  Marshal nodded like he understood. His own face held none of the awe and fear of the others. Instead, he looked miserable. His shoulders slumped, his mouth turned down. He ran a hand through his hair and dirt rained down.